Tom nodded approvingly. ‘Good name.’

Phoebe appeared, carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot and small chocolate cakes, and set it on a low table in front of the fireplace.

‘It was Phoebe here who tracked you down.’

Tom saw her blush faintly as she lowered the tray. She gave Rolt a mock-disapproving look, which he didn’t notice. Tom gazed at her, expecting some kind of explanation, but none came. Instead she lifted the teapot. ‘Shall I pour?’

Rolt waved her away. ‘No, that’s all right, Phoebe, thanks. Close the door behind you, will you?’ He waved at a pair of wing-backed chairs either side of the fire-place. Tom took a seat as he watched her leave.

‘Well, it’s very good of you to come. I’m sorry about bothering your father.’

‘Oh, he quite likes to be bothered. He doesn’t have enough to do, these days.’

Rolt sighed as he poured the tea. ‘Like so many of his generation. So much wisdom and common sense – such a shame it’s not listened to.’

‘I hope he didn’t bang on.’

Rolt looked faintly shocked. ‘No, not at all. We exchanged views on what’s been happening here . . .’

‘You aren’t pulling any punches with the media.’

Rolt snorted. ‘Well, the time’s come. Someone’s got to say it. And I’m in the enviable position of not having some party line to toe. I can say what I think and they can go screw themselves. How do you like it?’

‘Black, no sugar, please.’

Tom watched Rolt closely. His movements were studied, precise, not extravagant. He showed none of the arrogance of success. He had been an unmemorable teenager who had grown into a charismatic figure, outwardly charming, but the steel was visible beneath the surface.

He passed him a cup. ‘I wasn’t at all sure you’d get back to me. I’m something of a pariah in certain circles.’

Tom seized the opportunity. ‘Actually, there’s something you might be able to help me with.’ He told him about Rifleman Blakey.

Rolt’s eyes gleamed. ‘He’s just what we’re all about. Trouble is, we’re overflowing.’

‘What are the chances of squeezing in another one? I might be able to tap my old man to help with funds.’

Rolt’s face darkened. ‘The kind of money we need right now to go to the next level is . . . well, let’s say significant.’ He lapsed into silence, frowning into his tea. Eventually he went on. ‘I’ll come clean about the reason I called. Almost all my people, my staff, we’ve picked up and put back on the rails. They’re good, hundred per cent loyal, but I need to widen my net. We’re looking for – well, to be frank – people like you. Intelligent, capable, self-directed, presentable, from the right sort of background and with a blue-chip military record.’